


Quodlibet

by KatjaLaRoux



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatjaLaRoux/pseuds/KatjaLaRoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quodlibet:<i> (Latin: “what pleases”) a light-hearted composition combining several different melodies.</i><br/>Hawke is trying to get through her final semester of college. Fenris is particular about his coffee. Fate has plans. So does the barista. (Modern AU. femHawke/Fenris.)<br/>...<br/>Ch 5: "As she stepped out of the bathroom and her gaze fell on her disheveled bed, she closed her eyes and sighed. She really had liked him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little oneshot will serve as an introduction to a series of scenes about Hawke and Fenris in this modern, college-town version of Kirkwall. Written for SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: Prompt 4 "Reader Insert." Future chapters will be responses to other prompts from the same challenge (and will vary in style and perspective). Characters from DA:O, DA:A, and DA:2 may appear. And Double Hazelnut Soy Latte and Real Macchiato from Antiva is for Awinters25 – TeamAngst (you'll see). ;)

You hate working Saturday mornings.

Saturdays bring in _extra_ people. People you don't know. People who don't know you. People who are completely inept at ordering coffee.

_We don't have a "grande" anything. Did you want a 12 ounce or a 16 ounce?_

_Yes, that is what you ordered. A macchiato is a shot of espresso with a splash of milk. I can make you a vanilla latte with caramel on top, if that's what you meant._

_No, we don't have a pumpkin latte. That's disgusting. Squash does not belong in coffee. Go. Away._

You have dreamed of saying that last one out loud, but you don't because you do like your job.

Just not on Saturday mornings.

But when Norah called and begged, you couldn't help but agree to swap shifts. It's not every day her long-distance boyfriend comes into town for a visit (and you are, after all, a hopeless romantic).

You aren't sure what to think when you see some of your weekday regulars there. It feels _off_. You decide "surreal" is the right word for it when two of your favorites show up at about the same time. They are _never_ there at the same time, but now they are standing in the same line.

Cappuccino-Coffee, who is always polite but never smiles, orders the same drink combo as always before dumping his messenger bag at one of the few empty seats at the long counter facing the window.

As soon as he is out of range, Hawke—who introduced herself the second time she ordered a drink from you—leans close and whispers, "I've never seen someone double-fisting their caffeine before."

You try not to laugh. It only sort of works.

"I've never seen him double-fisting," you reply, writing down the café au lait you know she is going to order. "He drinks the capp and refills the cup with coffee after."

"And you charge him for the refill?" She hands you exact change.

You shake your head. "Just like I don't charge you for your second au lait." (You don't explain that he always puts the cost of the coffee in the tip jar, like he's paying for a separate drink.)

Hawke grins at you, and you can't help but grin back. She's like that. Even when you're in a bad mood because you got stuck with a Saturday morning shift, she can make you smile. This is why she's one of your favorites.

You watch Hawke cross the room and settle her own bag in the only empty seat left, right next to Cappuccino-Coffee. You imagine she said hello to him and, most likely, asked if it was okay for her to sit there. You wonder if she can make him smile, too. He rarely smiles.

You continue to greet customers, take orders, count change, and swipe credit cards, but at the back of your mind, you are considering your two favorite regulars.

Hawke has been coming in for her afternoon au lait (sometimes two) for nearly a year. Unlike most of the others, who you only know by drink order, Hawke took the time to introduce herself. On slow days, she would chat with you while you poured coffee and steamed the milk. You know she is from Ferelden, you know she is a music major, and you know she is close friends with the blonde with chest hair that everyone in the café is in love with (Americano With Room) and the Rivaini woman who flirts with everything (Dirty Chai). You also know that it's impossible to get through a shift without laughing when all three of them are there together.

Cappuccino-Coffee only started coming regularly a couple months ago. He doesn't talk to you much beyond ordering. What you know of him, you have discerned from watching him—but you do watch him a lot. It's hard not to. He's beautiful (and you have absolutely no issues calling a man beautiful). It was the silver-white hair and the tattoos curling like vines up his arms that first caught your attention. His accent is faint, but you can tell he's from Tevinter—or, at least, has spent a fair amount of time there. From the books he is often reading, you can guess he's studying philosophy or political science (or maybe both). And from the infrequency of his smile and his insistence on paying for the coffee refills, you can tell he takes things much too seriously.

You glance back over at the two and find yourself smiling. You have never seen them in the cafe together before, but seeing them sitting side-by-side at the window, you can't help but think they would make a good pair. Both foreign to the Free Marches, both committed enough to school to spend hours each day studying, and both relative traditionalists with their coffee (it means something; it really does). And with Hawke's lively personality and Cappuccino-Coffee's solemn demeanor, they would probably balance each other out nicely. Opposites attract, yin and yang, all of that stuff.

You are actually pleased when it is your turn to make a circuit around the café and bus tables. It means you finally have a moment to stretch your back and roll your shoulders. Of course, you also have to pick up dishes that got left behind by the jerks who don't realize there is a bin for dirty dishes right next to the door. You are amazed that the college students who frequent the café clean up after themselves better than the so-called adults who come in on Saturday mornings.

You pass Hawke and Cappuccino-Coffee, both with laptops out and books open. You don't mean to eavesdrop. You really don't. But it's hard to _not_ listen to Hawke when you spot the grin on her face. It's a near-perfect copy to the one her Rivaini friend always uses.

"I can't imagine why they'd be put off."

The over-the-top flirtatious tone of her voice makes you want to roll your eyes. Instead, you nearly trip over your own feet at the sound of the rich chuckle she gets in response.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Of course. It's Hawke. She didn't just get him to smile; she got him to _laugh_.

As you carry the bin of dirty dishes to the back, you realize just how _good_ they would look together. He is shorter-than-average, but so is she. They may even be about the same height. You picture them standing together: her confident posture and his ever-present slouch, his wide, green eyes brighter next to her easy smile, her copper hair richer next to his olive skin.

And then you wonder if you can pair up any of your other regulars.

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you realize how perfect that handsome Double Hazelnut Soy Latte fellow would be with Real Macchiato from Antiva, all blonde hair and cheeky grins and filthy jokes.

While separating garbage from dishes and plates from mugs, you debate the merits of White Mocha, Extra Whip with the _other_ White Mocha—the one you are convinced is the long, lost brother of Double Hazelnut Soy Latte—but you quickly decide the amount of innocence and naiveté between the two White Mochas would be probably be disastrous. Hawke's friend, Dirty Chai, corrupting the innocence of little White Mocha, Extra Whip, however, would be _great_.

You consider the other White Mocha again, testing the idea of him with Boring Black Tea (except he's a little _too_ devout) or Nonfat Decaf Iced Latte (except she's a little _too_ Orlesian), but ultimately you decide to selfishly keep him for yourself. You wonder if that's taking the shipping a little too far. But then you remind yourself that you are _shipping your regulars_ and that none of these ships are real. You're allowed to think about White Mocha and his lovely smile all you want. And maybe someday you'll even work up the nerve to ask him his name.

You have to put your shipping plans on hold as another rush comes in and you are called back out front to make drinks. Lost in the movement of drink after drink, you almost miss the to-go order of a dirty chai and an Americano as a signal of Hawke's friends arriving.

You glance up to find Hawke saying goodbye to Cappuccino-Coffee and placing both her mug and his mug in the dish bin. She looks over at her friends, who are standing right across the counter from you, and waves.

"New friend, Hawke?" Americano With Room arches an eyebrow as Hawke approaches.

"Maybe." Hawke shrugs, but even you noticed her blushing as she does. You have never seen Hawke blush before.

Dirty Chai chuckles. "Someone's smitten."

"I am not," Hawke argues.

But the color in her cheeks deepens, giving her away, and Dirty Chai just rolls her eyes.

You can't resist the opportunity. You set the two drinks on the counter and catch Hawke's eye.

"He comes in every morning around 8:45."

Hawke stares at you for a moment while her friends burst into laughter beside her. Then she mouths a quick "thank you" before grabbing her friends' drinks and turning on her heel.

"You're all assholes," she calls over her shoulder, garnering a few glares from customers nearby.

"Hey!" Dirty Chai immediately jogs after her. Americano With Room winks at you before following the women out the door.

Smiling to yourself, you decide that Hawke probably just turned from an afternoon regular to a morning regular. Shipping your regulars could be fun. And maybe, just maybe, you don't hate Saturday mornings so much after all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: Prompt 15 "Tweet," which asked for "a seven-part story, told in increments of 140 characters or less." So, I present you with a snapshot of Hawke's Twitter account, immediately after meeting Fenris at Lirene's café (the last chapter).

**_12 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: The baristas at #Lirenes are AMAZING.

@ChampionHawke: Anyone willing to swap studio times? I have a 9am, and I'll take anything. I am not above bribery. #KirkwallUMusic #CityofChainsJazz

@ChampionHawke: "@iheartcheese: You can have my noon." My hero! I'll never call you a royal bastard again.

* * *

**_13 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Finally made it to #Lirenes early enough for breakfast. Oh, Maker. Best Antivan pastries ever!

@ChampionHawke: I stand corrected. @ZevArai is the best Antivan pastry ever.

* * *

**_18 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Just spent an hour debating the moral ambiguity of Grey Wardens w/o wanting punch anyone. I think I have a crush on this boy's mind.

@ChampionHawke: And is it possible to have a crush on someone's voice? I could listen to him talk for hours.

@ChampionHawke: "@QueenIsabela: But does he have pretty eyes?" Yes. Yes, he does.

@ChampionHawke: Maker's balls...I have a legitimate crush. I forgot how to do this. Should I doodle his name on my binder?

* * *

**_21 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Can someone please teach me how to flirt? Apparently I'm horrible at it.

@ChampionHawke: I love my friends, but I think the intervention I just received did more harm than good. @QueenIsabela @SerPounceALot @ZevArai

* * *

**_24 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Finally grew a pair and asked my crush from the cafe to come to a show! This shouldn't be as exciting as it is.

@ChampionHawke: For every oz of love and support I get from @hawke_beth, I get a thousand lbs of asshat from @DontCallMeHawke. Hawke siblings FTW!

* * *

**_26 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Show tonight at the Hanged Man! 7 pm. Good jazz and cheap beer. Can't go wrong! #CityofChainsJazz #KirkwallUMusic

@ChampionHawke: Spotted my crush in the doorway. Forgot what song I was playing. Good thing it was just sound check.

* * *

**_27 Kingsway_ **

@ChampionHawke: Random Prof Cullen sighting + amazing show + bottle of Aggregio with the boy I have a crush on = Saturday night trifecta.

@ChampionHawke: I feel like I deserve a trophy for making it through the night and not making an ass of myself. Thank the Maker he's not on twitter.

_Fenris (@JustFenris) is now following your tweets on Twitter (@ChampionHawke)._

@ChampionHawke: Seriously? I can't even...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: Prompt 35 "Friendship." Takes place the morning after Hawke’s performance and unintentional Twitter confession.

The laptop was balanced precariously on the far corner of the coffee table, and the cable running from it to the television hung about an inch off the avocado green carpet. Anders knew it was a dangerous set-up, but it was the best he could come up with. He popped the video on his laptop to full screen, hit play, and settled back on the couch. Ser Pounce-a-Lot wasted no time in making himself comfortable in his lap.

“Damnit, Pounce. My tea is over there. I can’t reach it now.”

The pudgy tabby blinked at him once before completely ignoring the complaint and closing his eyes. Anders just sighed and turned his attention to the television. Despite not being able to get to his tea, it was a perfect Sunday morning.

So comfortable in his little corner of the couch, Anders almost missed the thud from the other side of the room. Ser Pounce, however, jumped at the noise, ears twitching forward, eyes wide and focused intently at the front door. Anders frowned for a moment. His apartment was really just a converted attic space of an old house. Any noise at his door meant someone had climbed three stories worth of old and not-so-safe stairs to get there. It had to be on purpose.

He dumped Pounce from his lap and went to see who it was.

The last thing he expected when he opened the door was to have Hannah Hawke literally fall into his arms.

He grinned down at her.

“I always knew you’d end up back in my arms one day.”

Hawke blinked, blushed, and spluttered as she tried to push away from him.

“Fucking—what the— _Anders_.”

He laughed and helped her back to her feet properly before folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

“Were you leaning against my door?”

“Maybe,” she mumbled.

He grinned and waited patiently while she straightened her shirt and adjusted the ratty old cardigan over it.

When she finished, she let out a huff of air and looked up at him.

“I…I need your help, Anders.”

He frowned. Neither the statement nor the slight waver in her voice were expected. “What’s wrong?”

“I need a wingman,” Hawke sighed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the sweater.

“A…wingman?” Anders blinked at her. “I thought things went really well with that guy last night.”

“Well, they did, but…I kind of…” Hawke shook her head and the rest of her explanation came out in a rush. “I tweeted about him. I tweeted about him thinking he wasn’t on Twitter, but he is and he saw and he _knows_ now, Anders. He knows. And I can’t face him alone. I need you.”

Anders stared at her for a moment, waiting for the “just kidding,” waiting for the punchline. But she just looked at him, eyebrows tilted down. And when he realized she was actually serious, he sighed.

“I can’t. I’m working this morning. I’m sure it’s fine, Hawke. You’re just overthinking things.”

“You’re watching cartoons,” she countered.

He rolled his eyes.

She mirrored his reaction and waved a hand dismissively. “Anime,” she said. “Whatever.”

“Why can’t Isabela and Varric do this for you? They’re usually your wingmen.”

“Do you realize what those two would do with this kind of information? What they would do to me? _No._ Anders, no. Please. It has to be you.”

The combination of the look on her face, the pleading tone, and the swell of pride that she trusted him more than Isabela and Varric was cracking his resolve. He was always a sucker for Hawke. He had been since they day they met, but he was going to keep his mouth shut this time. He really was. She could call it “watching cartoons” all she wanted, but he _was_ working. He had a deadline to meet.

When he didn’t respond, she said, “Zevran will be there.”

And Anders’s brain went into panic mode. He was momentarily torn between rolling his eyes and arching an eyebrow, between dismissing the statement and pretending he didn’t care. What he ended up doing was something more of a spastic eye twitch. He kicked himself mentally but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need to make it worse.

And Hawke just folded her arms across her chest, adding, “If I go by myself, I’ll tell him what you told me.”

Anders’s stomach dropped to his feet. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

Hawke blinked once before her own eyes went wide, as if she just realized what she’s said.

“Maker’s balls. I didn’t mean that.” She reached across and put a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry, Anders. Shit. I’m sorry.”

He inhaled slowly and studied her for a moment. There was a crease between her brows and a frown on her face. Her hair had been haphazardly pulled back, twisted into a knot and held in place with a pencil. And she was wearing that old cardigan that was once his.

“You’re really stressing out about this, aren’t you?”

She dropped her hand from his arm and sighed. “I know it’s stupid. I know it. I just…”

“You just let yourself over-analyze the situation?” He tilted his head. “To the point where you can no longer think about it clearly?” He smiled. “Like you always do?”

She let out a huff of air. Bit her lip. And nodded.

Anders chuckled and reached for her shoulder, dragging her into a hug.

“Hannah Hawke, I love you to pieces. But, sweetheart, you are a disaster sometimes.”

“I know,” Hawke sighed, sagging into him. “That’s why I’m here. You’re supposed to help, not insult me.”

Anders chuckled again. “And how exactly do you think bringing your best friend-slash-ex-boyfriend along is going to help?”

She pulled away and frowned up at him. “What would you do?”

Well,” he said slowly, considering the situation. “I see three options: Avoid. Confront. Or hold your head high and pretend nothing happened.” He shrugged. “You know which one I do best when it comes to relationships. I run like there’s an Archdemon after me. I don’t necessarily recommend that though.”

Hawke snorted. And shook her head. Anders’s habit of avoiding anyone who got too close is exactly what ended their relationship freshmen year. And it had taken months to settle into a friendship and nearly a year to be able to crack jokes about their past without any real bitterness. Avoidance was also what was keeping him from talking to Zevran now. He knew avoiding wasn’t a good idea. But he also knew Hawke.

And Hawke would inevitably sabotage herself if she approached Fenris in the state she was currently in.

“How about a compromise,” he said. “Snuggle with Ser Pounce and I on the couch for an hour, and then we’ll go to Lirene’s. You can decide when we get there if you want to bring up whatever you put on Twitter or not.”

Hawke nodded slowly, and Anders stepped aside to let her into his apartment.

“I wouldn’t have told Zev anything, you know,” she said quietly.

“Thank you,” he smiled and pulled the pencil from her hair as she walked by.

**…oOo…**

Fenris frowned at his History of Thedas textbook. Not because of the misrepresentation of slavery in Tevinter, although that bothered him, too, but because he had read and re-read the same paragraph four times. The lack of concentration frustrated him. He didn’t have time for being distracted. But he was. And it wasn’t even a distraction he could simply shut out with headphones or move to another study spot to escape. Because the distraction was caused entirely by an absence.

Hawke hadn’t come to Lirene’s.

It had only been a couple of weeks since they first spoke, but he had become accustomed to seeing her there. He had gotten used to her presence. She was a distraction when she was there, yes. But a welcome one. An enjoyable one. One that, even if it meant staying up an extra hour each night to finish his reading, felt worthwhile.

At first, he had assumed she was simply late. In the short time he had known her, he had found her to be inconsistent. No, that wasn’t it. Unpredictable was more accurate. Her arrival time ranged anywhere from ten minutes early to ten minutes late. At least, in relation to his own arrival time, which was always 8:45. But she had never been more than 15 minutes late before. And by 9:30, he had lost all ability to focus on his reading.

It had only been 8 hours since he last saw her. He shouldn’t be so concerned with her not being there.

And Fenris couldn’t decide what was bothering him more: that she hadn’t come or that her absence was so distracting.

Scowling, he snapped the textbook closed and began shoving his notes into his bag. Clearly, his morning at the café was a waste of time. It was early enough that he could still catch Sigrun before she left for her mid-morning run.

He made it back to his complex just as she was stepping out of the door across from his own. She nodded enthusiastically when he asked if he could join her and waited for him to change quickly and get halfway across the park before asking why he was breaking his routine.

“Wow, Fen. She really has gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”

“Apparently,” he grumbled. “And I don’t like it.”

“You liked it just fine last night.” He could hear the smirk in her voice.

Fenris rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t deny the truth in that statement. He had gone to see her perform with the university jazz ensemble out of curiosity. And once the band started, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. At the café, when she spoke about something she was passionate about, there was a spark in her eyes, a certain _brightness_ to her. And when she was performing, fingers sliding along the neck of a bass guitar, that same brightness seemed to bloom. It intensified. And it was intoxicating.

He hadn’t planned on staying for the entire show but ended up waiting for the band to break down their gear so he could compliment her individually and thank her for inviting him. Falling into conversation after that had felt entirely natural. As had ordering that bottle of wine and letting the conversation linger past midnight.

“Wait. Fen, do you…” Sigrun startled him out of his memories. She turned to look up at him before letting out a snort of laughter. “You _do_. You _like_ her.”

Fenris rolled his eyes again. “If I didn’t like her, I wouldn’t waste time talking to her.”

He didn’t move quick enough to dodge the elbow she jabbed into his side.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

He did know. But the thought didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it made it worse.

He pushed back a memory of Hawke blushing, the thrill he felt of being the one to make her blush, the sudden desire to touch his fingertips to her cheek and feel the warmth of that blush.

“I don’t have time for romantic entanglements,” he said, his voice flat.

Signrun didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. He could feel her watching him. He could hear her thoughts, as clear as if she was shouting them right in his face. That was probably because she had done just that once or twice before.

It was an old argument. For all he and Sigrun had in common—raised half on the streets, fighting for scraps, and half in the foster system, trying to prove their worth—they couldn’t be more fundamentally opposite. Fenris couldn’t even remember when they had first become friends, but they had somehow crossed paths and shared temporary homes a handful of times over the years. And Sigrun stepped out of the system, took one look at the life that had shaped her, and laughed, more than ready to move on and take advantage of the opportunities now in front of her. For Fenris though, the future was a fragile thing, something he wasn’t even sure how to face.

“I need to stay focused on my studies,” he responded to her unspoken argument. “If my grades slip, I won’t get into law school, and I won’t get that scholarship.”

What he didn’t say was how he just wasn’t as brave as her. Even five years out of the system, he never could shake the feeling that he was still running from something, something that might catch him and drag him back.

As they turned the last corner of the running path, Sigrun said, “Some of us keep our grades up and have lives, you know, Fen.”

**…oOo…**

“How did I just watch three hours of a show about a wallop team?” Hawke rolled her eyes and nudged Anders with her shoulder. “I can’t believe watching animated boys in gym shorts counts as research for you.”

“Thank the Maker for a senior thesis on narrative theory,” Anders nudged her back. “And you were only supposed to watch two episodes with me.”

“I needed to know if the tall one was going to quit the team or not.”

“That was four episodes ago, Hawke,” Anders chuckled.

“It’s still your fault that I’m going to be late for my rehearsal with Ali and Lyna.”

“I know,” he gave an exaggerated sigh. “That’s why I’m going with you.”

He really hadn’t meant to keep her for so long, but he didn’t complain when she said she wanted to see “just one more episode.” When she did realize what time it was, he agreed to walk her to the music building and—even though she was unlikely to actually be late—apologize to Alistair and Lyna for keeping her distracted.

In truth, he didn’t care in the slightest. The most important thing was that Hawke was back to herself, even admitting between episodes 7 and 8 that the Twitter thing probably wasn’t that big of a deal.

They had just crossed the small park that separated Anders’s neighborhood from campus when he spotted Sigrun and a taller friend stretching at the benches on the edge of the park. He hadn’t seen Sigrun in months.

He called out to her and waved before steering Hawke in that direction. Sigrun waved back enthusiastically, and her friend looked up from his stretch.

He heard Hawke swear under her breath and realized too late that Sigrun’s running partner was Fenris.

“Chin up like it’s no big deal, Hawke,” he whispered to her, slinging his arm over her shoulder as they approached.

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Sigrun grinned. “Or out, I suppose.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Anders rolled his eyes.

There was an awkward moment of introductions, which only accentuated the point that Sigrun clearly knew who Hawke was and Anders already knew who Fenris was and both Fenris and Hawke were noticeably uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Hawke quickly excused herself, reminding Anders of her rehearsal and giving him a glare that would have caused a shiver if he wasn’t so amused at her hasty escape. From the corner of his eye, he watched Fenris watching her walk away with a slight frown.

Anders looked at Sigrun, who looked from Hawke to Fenris and then arched an eyebrow at Anders. He saw the question in his old friend’s eyes, the sparkle of mischief she so often had, and he smirked as an idea started to take shape.

Hawke had said she came to him because Isabela and Varric would definitely have embarrassed her in this situation. He wouldn’t. But that didn’t mean he was going to let an opportunity like this pass by. And Hawke had asked for his help after all. She said wanted a wingman.

“I’m having a party tonight,” he announced. Fenris’s eyes snapped to him, and Sigrun grinned. “Nothing big,” Anders shrugged casually. “Just, you know, some board games and beers. But you should both come.”

Fenris looked ready to decline, but, as expected, Sigrun elbowed him before he could.

“We’ll be there,” she said with a wink.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combined response to the following prompts from SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: 30 "Drunk," 31 "Party," and 37 "First Person." For what it's worth, I've pretty much abandoned the official writing challenge, but I'll still be working on this little AU. And if Emilinia-sama is still reading, your prompt will be up next!

"'Board games and beers,' he says. 'Nothing big,' he says." I rolled my eyes. Nothing about the crowd currently crammed in Anders's tiny attic-turned-apartment was 'board games and beers.' Then again, Anders never did anything in halves.

When Anders had texted me to say he'd decided to throw a last minute party, I didn't really think anything of it. Anders used to throw parties all the time, and Anders always threw good parties. The frequency of them slowed as we all got further into our studies, but it still wasn't so infrequent that the sudden party announcement felt unusual.

It should have.

But I just grinned at the prospect of a night of drinking and debauchery with my friends. I could use a little break after the ridiculous mental anguish I had been causing myself since Fenris had shown up on Twitter.

As usual, I was the first to show up at Anders's apartment, brownies in hand. At first nothing about the party felt out of the ordinary. Alistair and Lyna showed up with their standard six pack of overpriced microbrew. Anders's neighbor, Nate, brought a predictably similar six pack. Isabela brought rum, and Varric brought pot. Zevran brought a dark-haired girl with tattoos who looked familiar but whose name I couldn't quite place. There were a few other familiar faces, some I hadn't seen in ages, others I saw regularly, but all were faces I'd seen at least once at one of Anders's parties. All in all, it felt like a normal night.

But every time I glanced Anders's way, he would flash me a sly grin. I just assumed it was about the half a platter of brownies he'd kept for himself, hidden in his closet.

I should have known better.

But it wasn't until Sigrun and Fenris walked through the front door, Sigrun grinning from ear to ear and Fenris looking vaguely disinterested, that I figured out what was going on.

I gaped at Anders from the kitchen, and he just shrugged, silently mouthing, "Wingman," before dragging Sigrun into a bear hug.

I snapped my mouth shut as soon as I put the pieces together. My eyes slid to Fenris, who was standing next to Sigrun while Anders tugged their coats and scarves away and gave a vague hand-waving tour of his place.

Anders waved a hand in my direction, and Fenris turned his head, his eyes finding mine immediately. I swallowed thickly. I glanced from Anders's smug grin to Fenris's unchanging expression and back. The temperature in the apartment suddenly spiked, and I felt like my entire body was burning up. I quickly turned away and downed the gin and tonic I'd just mixed.

Zevran, who was in the process of filling a row of shot glasses next to me, arched a single perfectly-plucked eyebrow in question.

I opened my mouth, frustration and explanation on the tip of my tongue, when my thoughts were completely derailed by a voice I'd grown all too familiar with.

"Hawke."

I closed my eyes, swallowed back the tangle of emotions as best I could, and turned to greet Fenris.

"Hi, Fenris. Can I get you something to drink? I was just making something for myself. What would you like?"

I could hear the nervous rattle of my words, and I could feel Zevran watching me, knowing he heard it as well, but Fenris seemed entirely unfazed.

I watched him scan the counter full of bottles behind me. He was dressed much like every other time I'd seen him, dark jeans that hung just so and a simple v-neck—charcoal grey tonight. My brain helpfully pointed out that the t-shirt looked soft and particularly _touchable_ tonight.

The thought vanished at a not-so-gentle elbow to the side from Zevran. It was just in time for Fenris to look back to me and ask, "What are you having?"

Zevran and I responded at the same time.

"Gin and tonic."

"Shots."

I frowned and looked at Zevran.

He grinned, a sly smile that looked much too much like the one Anders had given me before. The familiarity of it reminded me that all Anders had done was thrown a party and invite Sigrun and Fenris. He was just trying to help. It didn't make me any less nervous about Fenris's presence, but the annoyance at my friend's meddling disappeared.

And all Zevran was doing was picking up on my nerves and being a little bit mischievous—both of which were relatively normal for him.

" _One_ shot," I said firmly before turning back to Fenris. "And then gin and tonic?"

Fenris's lips twitched downward ever so slightly, his eyes darting between Zevran and I quickly, but he nodded.

"I'm Zevran, by the way. Zev to my friends."

Fenris accepted the shot glass Zevran held out and replied, "Fenris."

"So I've heard," Zevran grinned and passed me a full shot glass.

"I'm sure there's some lovely toast we could say here," he said, holding his glass up in a salute. "Something about building bridges with friends and such. Something poetic..." He winked at me before saying, "Or we could just drink and hope we end up in the right bed in the morning."

I rolled my eyes before tossing back the shot and grimacing. Rum was my least favorite.

I proceeded to pour a liberal amount of gin in both my glass and a clean one while Zevran quickly refilled the shot glasses and sauntered out of the kitchen with them, shooting me a meaningful glance over his shoulder.

"I feel like you and Zevran just had an entire conversation without speaking a word."

I chuckled and glanced up at Fenris quickly.

"We were roommates," I said, adding a handful of ice cubes to each glass. "With Varric and Isabela, actually. The four of us shared a house sophomore year. I guess you could say we're pretty close."

"Hm."

It was one of those noncommittal hums that he used so often, just something that resonated somewhere in the back of his throat. I hadn't yet been able to determine if they ever had meaning beyond acknowledging that something had been said.

The silence in the kitchen felt louder than the buzz of conversation and laughter coming from the living room. And as I topped off both glasses with tonic water and added lime wedges, it only grew louder.

Afraid my hand would noticeably shake and give me away, I opted to slide the drink across the counter towards Fenris instead of handing it to him, making a show of recapping the gin bottle and tossing the tonic can in the recycle bin under the sink. When I turned back to Fenris, he had the drink in hand and was leaning casually against the kitchen island.

I leaned against the counter behind me—a little less casually, I'm sure—and scanned the scene in the living room behind him while taking a sip of my drink. Isabela had her arm slung over the shoulder of the girl Zevran had brought, and I quickly realized that was who Zevran's shots were originally meant for. Anders was telling a story to a group of people in the far corner, his hands flailing wildly as he did. And Varric was leaning against the wall, chatting to Sigrun like old friends.

I took another sip of my drink then set it on the counter, letting my gaze fall to the floor until the heavy silence between us became too much. I forced myself to look up at him only to find him watching me. His green eyes were focused, intent—like he was waiting for something.

"I'm sorry about the Twitter thing," I blurted. And quickly looked down again.

"The…Twitter thing?"

My head snapped back up. He sounded genuinely confused.

"The thing I said on Twitter? About you?"

"I'm hardly ever on Twitter." He quirked an eyebrow up. "What did you say?"

"Oh." I blinked. And I smiled when I realized what that meant. All I had to do was go back and delete those posts—which I probably should have already done.

"You know what. Forget I mentioned anything. It's not that important." Picking my drink up again, I gestured to the living room. "Shall we join the party?"

The evening spun around me as I floated from conversation to conversation. I played a few hands of Wicked Grace, and I swapped stories and bad jokes. It was unintentional, but I rarely ended up in the same group as Fenris. And eventually, I just drifted back toward the kitchen, perching on the island and propping my feet on a barstool, content to watch my friends in the living room.

"Mind if I join you?"

I glanced over at Fenris and, with my half-empty drink, gestured to the empty space next to me. "Knock yourself out."

The moment he pulled himself up on the counter next to me, I became hyper-aware of just how close he was. The only other time we'd ever sat side-by-side was at Lirene's, and there we always had a respectable space between us. But now, his thigh was barely an inch from my own. And I could _feel_ him.

"Isabela and Merrill seem quite close," he said, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Merrill?" I frowned, glancing at the dark-haired girl currently sitting in Isabela's lap. "Oh. Right. She came with Zevran."

"He doesn't seem to mind."

Zevran was, in fact, deep in conversation with Anders on the far side of the room, sitting close and talking quietly.

"Good," I nodded and took a long sip of my drink. I rested the glass on my knee, my gaze drifting again to the small gap between our thighs.

And I watched as Fenris's fingers—long, slender, made for a piano—curled around my glass and pulled it away slowly. My eyes follow his hand as he lifted the glass to his lips and drained what was left. When he twisted to set the glass on the counter behind him, I blinked rapidly a few times and turned away before he caught me staring.

I watched as Sigrun jumped to her feet, pantomiming some story, laughing the entire time. She was boisterous. Gregarious. The extrovert to Fenris's introvert. Over the course of the evening, I had learned that she and Fenris had actually met as teenagers and had stayed in touch, but they had ended up at the same university on accident. And now they were neighbors, living in separate studio apartments, just across the hall from each other.

"You know," I said, "it's funny how many conversations we've had and how little we really know about each other. Or maybe it's just what we know about each other isn't the same as what we know about other people. I know your stance on the trade embargo with Par Vollen, but I don't know what kind of food you like. It's…weird, right?"

I glanced over at him. His brows were drawn together and his lips were curved in a small frown. And I laughed and shook my head.

"Don't think about it too hard," I said, nudging his shoulder with mine. "It's just one of Hawke's drunken rambles. Totally unimportant."

It was silent for a beat. Then he said, "Seafood."

"What?" I blinked at him.

"I like seafood." He gave me a slight smile and nudged my shoulder. "Shrimp, in particular. And those Orlesian puff pastry things with the hazelnut crème inside."

"That sounds very…decadent." I moved my shoulder to nudge him again.

"What about you?"

"Rivaini food," I grinned. "The spicier, the better. And a good Fereldan pie."

He hummed but any actual response he had was interrupted by a thunder clap of laughter from the other side of the room. My attention snapped to my friends, and Anders caught my eye just then. He winked. I wondered if I was blushing before realizing that my face was already warm from the gin I'd been drinking all night. And then I realized that my last nudge had actually turned into more of lean, my shoulder pressed against Fenris's.

When I turned to look at Fenris, I was struck again by his proximity. I could see gold flecks in the green of his eyes. I could feel his body heat seeping into me where our shoulders and arms were pressed together. I could smell gin and lime and something else sharp and almost sweet.

It was dizzying. Either that or I was drunker than I realized.

"I need some water," I murmured. I slid down from the counter and headed for the kitchen sink. Fenris followed quietly. I drank a glass of water, refilled it, and offered it to him. While he drank, I closed my eyes and focused on a few deep, steadying breaths.

"Are you okay?" His voice was soft, his hand on my shoulder surprisingly light.

I nodded, looking back over at him. "I think I drank a bit more than I meant to, but I'm fine. I should probably head home."

He frowned. "You didn't drive did you?"

"Maker, no," I laughed. "I'm just a few blocks over from here."

"Can I walk you?"

I shrugged, hoping it looked casual and nonchalant even though I felt the opposite.

And so we said our goodbyes and exchanged a few hugs. Isabela whispered "I want details in the morning" in my ear while Anders just gave me a look before planting a loud, wet kiss on my cheek. Sigrun and Fenris spoke quickly and quietly.

And then we were walking south on Rialto Street towards my block.

The neighborhood was quiet, and the night air was crisp. The combination was exactly what I need to clear my head. I was aware of the buzz under my skin and the urge to lean into Fenris again, but walking was helping.

"I really did enjoy your show last night," Fenris said. "I don't really listen to jazz much."

"Neither do I, actually," I laughed. "I mean, some but not much."

"But you're in a jazz band?"

"Not by choice," I said. "I actually hate performing. We're all required to do a certain number of performance ensembles for the major. I did the Satinalia Choral thing last year. It's a little better because the band is more in the background, but Professor Cullen talked me into the jazz ensemble. And it's hard to say no to Cullen, especially when…ah." I chuckled. "Sorry. Rambling again."

Fenris just hummed again and fell silent.

I couldn't be sure if it was him or me or both of us, but we ended up walking close together. I tried to ignore it, but I could feel him there. So close, so warm, so easy to touch. And I concentrated on not following through with that urge.

My house arrived just in time.

"This is me." I took a quick step away.

Fenris glanced up at the large, white house behind me. "You live here?"

"Oh. No." I nodded to the path alongside the driveway. "I'm in the little building in the back. It used to be a carriage house, I think."

He nodded, his eyes drifting to the path and then to the small, square building it led to. And I couldn't help it.

"Do you want some coffee?"

His eyes snapped to mine, and he nodded again, a faint smile on his lips.

He followed me up the path, through the front door, and into the corner that served as a kitchen.

"I only have a French press," I explained, filling the kettle with water. "Not enough outlets in here for a real coffee maker."

I turned to put the kettle on the stove, rambling my way through the other various quirks of the little building I lived in—the way the windows stuck in the summertime, the gurgle of the pipes when the hot water was on, the one wonky floorboard that I always stubbed my toe on. And when I turned back around, Fenris was right there, watching me with an amused half-smile.

I remembered seeing him in Anders's kitchen and thinking it was strange, but this, Fenris in _my_ kitchen, didn't feel strange at all. While he looked out of place in Anders's kitchen with a party buzzing in the background, here, in the middle of the night, in my kitchen, he _fit_.

I was vaguely aware that most of the logic leading me to that thought was probably coming from the amount of alcohol in my system, but it didn't seem to make a difference.

"I like you," I said suddenly. "That's what I said on Twitter. That I like you. Well I called it a crush. But I like you. A lot, actually. And I didn't… _oh_." I blinked, realizing what I'd just said. Fenris was just watching me, eyebrows raised in question. "Andraste's tits," I said quickly, shaking my head and staring hard at the ground. "Sorry. Shit. Sorry. This is why I should never drink gin."

"Drunken Hawke rambles?"

I wouldn't have looked up at him if his voice did sound strangely close to me. But I did. And found that he _was_ closer. A lot closer. I could smell him again. I swallowed thickly and nodded.

"Are they usually honest rambles?" His voice soft, low, a tone I'd never heard from him before. It resonated somewhere deep in my gut, and for a heartbeat, I was afraid to move.

All I could do was nod.

And fist my fingers into the front of his shirt when he leaned in to kiss me.

The whistle of the kettle startled us apart. I spun to flick the cap off the kettle, killing the shrill sound, and turn the burner off.

" _Basta_." Fenris stepped away from me, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I should not have done that."

"Oh."

My heart had been hammering inside my chest, but it stuttered to a stop at those words.

Fenris's eyes went wide. "No. Please don't misunderstand. You're a beautiful woman, Hawke. But I—I don't do this."

I frowned. "Don't do what?"

" _This_." He gestured between us.

I still wasn't exactly sure what he meant. Maybe he was referring to us both being a bit tipsy. Drunk hook-ups weren't really my thing either. Or maybe he meant women. But if Zev or Anders had even a slightest concern that Fenris was only into men—and they would have noticed—one of them would have pointed it out to me. Maybe he was just suggesting that we were moving too quickly. He did say he liked me.

"Okay." I nodded, my thoughts returning to the word "beautiful."

He blinked at me. I wondered if he was surprised that I wasn't going to argue or ask questions. So I smiled at him, hoping to reassure him that I was genuinely accepting his explanation—even though I didn't really understand it.

With a quick shake of his head, he closed the gap and kissed me again, slower this time, with less desperation and more intention. I let my hands skim under his shirt, settling against his skin at the small of his back, fingers pressing into lean muscle. I couldn't help the noise at the back of my throat when he pulled away from the kiss, gently tugging at my bottom lip as he did.

He pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, " _Basta_."

"What is it?" I whispered back.

"I don't…date."

That wasn't what I was expecting to hear. And I was not drunk enough to not know what that meant.

"I'm not a one night stand kind of girl."

"I know." But he didn't move.

"Maybe we should make that coffee," I suggested. "And talk."

"I know," he repeated. And then he pressed his lips to the corner of my mouth, the edge of my jaw, the soft spot of my neck, and whispered against my pulse, "In the morning."


	5. Chapter 5

Fenris had woken, like always, at 6:45. His body didn’t seem to care that he had only fallen asleep two and a half hours before. He knew that eventually the lack of sleep would catch up to him—and probably at an inconvenient time, like in the middle of his Ethics and Economics class that evening. But he also knew trying to fall back asleep would be a wasted effort.

Waking the woman sleeping soundly next to him was not an option, and as he slipped out of the bed, he was grateful for once that he had spent so many years sneaking in and out of various foster homes and orphanages and had learned how to be silent. It only took a moment to collect all of his clothing as almost everything had been tossed haphazardly on the floor next to the bed. He checked his phone one last time and slid it in his coat pocket as he crossed the room to the front door were his shoes were.

The sight of his canvas sneakers next to her well-worn boots made him pause and glance over his shoulder at the bed.

She was curled in a ball and burrowed so far underneath the heavy quilt that all he could see of her was a tangle of copper curls. And it would be so easy to go back, so easy to just crawl under the blankets with her and sleep the day away.

He couldn’t deny that the idea was tempting. _She_ was tempting. She reminded him of the lightning storms back in Tevinter. It was the way she had snuck up on him, appearing at his side completely unannounced and then refusing to let him do anything at all without her presence being known.

He let himself get caught up in her. And just like those storms, it was too much, too fast.

He was a fool. He had no idea what he was doing.

He frowned to himself and turned back to his shoes, kneeling and tugging at the laces.

* * *

 

There is something about the comedown after a really great book that had always been disappointing to Hannah, and as she slowly woke up and took stock of her situation, she couldn't help but think the morning after had a similar feel. There was no soft, blissful feeling, no comforting warmth, nothing like the stories other girls talked about. Instead, her hair was matted on one side, her hips and back ached, and her skin felt stiff and itchy.

And the bed next to her was empty.

She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face into her pillow to muffle the scream of frustration. But she couldn’t be mad at him, could she? He had said he didn’t date. She could have sent him home at those words, but she didn’t. It had been her choice, and it had been the wrong one. Anders always told her she was best at breaking her own heart, just to make sure no one else had the chance.

She gave herself a few moments to wallow in self-pity before the urge to shower dragged her from her nest of blankets.

Normally hyper-aware of her utility bills, Hannah decided she deserved an extra hot, extra long shower. In an effort to avoid replaying every moment from the night before, she wrote practice text messages in her head—telling Anders that she’d sabotaged herself after all and telling Isabela she’d finally had a proper one night stand. She knew they’d both see right through her attempts to make light of the situation, and decided she’d have to wait until later in the day, when her heart hurt a little less, to tell either of them anything.

As she stepped out of the bathroom and her gaze fell on her disheveled bed, she closed her eyes and sighed.

She really had liked him.

She pulled on a well-worn pair of jeans and the ratty old Blight Orphans t-shirt she’d stolen from Carver ages ago—skipping the bra altogether. She had no intention of showing her face at Lirene’s this morning and had no need to dress properly until it was time to leave for rehearsal at 2:30. Her eyes drifted again to her bed, and she changed her mind, reaching for the bra after all. She didn’t really want to stay home all day.

She had been taught that one part of making a good jazz song was the tension and release. But as she walked from her house to the music building, away from her still unmade bed and too raw feelings, all she wanted was release.

* * *

 

Most girls are raised with fairy tales. They grow up with stories about valiant knights or dashing Teyrns rescuing the fair maiden, stories about love at first sight and happily ever after. The stories Hannah grew up with were a little different—because the blues are based on heartbreak and jazz standards about the Shartan or Andraste don’t come with happily ever afters. She learned quickly that she was no fun at sleepovers when she was little. She didn’t care much, in the end because she’d also learned quickly that she would would trade a sleepover with the popular girls at school for an afternoon sitting on the floor of her dad’s studio, listening to him play.

When he died, Leandra sold the piano, and Hannah didn’t fight her on it. The piano was her father. Jazz was her father. It was something that she knew was flowing through her veins, but at that point, all she wanted was something she could feel in her bones. And the local punk scene had given her exactly that.

Leandra had been tolerant of Hannah’s interest in punk music at first, assuming it was a phase. But the longer it lasted—the more time she devoted procuring obscure vinyls and throwing herself into mosh pits—the less tolerant Leandra became. It became a sticking point between mother and daughter, one that was at the heart of a number of screaming matches. Hannah never once admitted that on nights when she couldn’t sleep, she still played her dad’s favorite jazz songs.

It didn’t take her long to lug an old combo amp from the music building’s storage closet down the hall and into one of the empty practice studios. She was grateful that someone (more than one someone, actually) had decided to sleep through their reserved studio time, leaving a studio available for her. She’d brought her bass from home. It was the first one she’d bought—one of those little-known brands that was actually a subsidiary of the big guys. It was half-covered in stickers, the black paint had been scraped off one edge from the bracelets she used to always wear while playing, and there was one pickup that she could never remember to tighten. It was kind of a piece of shit, actually. But it was all Hannah could afford at 13, and it held a lot of memories.

Hannah slung the strap over her shoulder, snapped the cord into the amp, and cranked the volume. She started with one of her favorites—the first song she’d ever seen the Blight Orphans perform live.

It felt good—playing fast and hard in a way she couldn’t with the jazz ensemble. She switched to some newer Blight Orphans songs, songs she remembered blasting from the car speakers the day she took Carver for a drive on the coast, pretending to not notice him crying over getting dumped by that bitch Peaches.

It was Bethany that Hannah was thinking off when she played with first, bright notes of a Dust Town Dolls song. Leandra had gone pale the day Carver asked if he could go to a show with Hannah, but she nearly fainted when Bethany chimed in that she would go, too. Bethany never got into the scene the way Hannah or Carver had, but she still liked to sing along with the Dust Town Dolls.

She was three songs into what she remembered of Varterral's Heart’s first album, her thoughts finally settling on Fenris, when movement at the small window facing the hallway caught her attention. Her fingers froze at the sight of Isabela and Varric grinning at her. As soon as the amp went silent, she heard the knock at the door.

Hannah’s stomach dropped. She was not ready for this interrogation. She didn’t know why they were there anyway. She had purposely _not_ texted any of them. She flung the door to the studio open, curse on the tip of her tongue, and froze once more.

Hannah blinked. And Fenris blinked back.

She blinked again, and she and Fenris both spoke at the same time.

“Is that a Blight Orphans shirt?”

“You left.”

She frowned down at her shirt. They both spoke at the same time again.

“You know them?”

“I left a note.”

Hawke looked up again, but neither of them spoke.

“I told him,” Isabela said, appearing next to Fenris and draping an arm over his shoulder, “that you _never_ use that desk. A note left anywhere else, and you probably would have seen it.”

Fenris shrugged her arm off, and Hannah looked to Varric, hoping for a more clear explanation.

“Broody came into Lirene’s looking for you, Hawke. Said he’d gone for breakfast and your door was locked when he came back. Blondie looked like he was about to eat the kid alive, so we offered to help him look for you.” Varric’s shrug looked casual, but Hannah was all too familiar with the gleam in his eyes.

Hannah’s eyes darted from Varric to Isabela to Fenris, who lifted the bag in his hand slightly, drawing attention to the evidence of his errand.

She took one step forward, grabbed Fenris by the lapel of his coat, and yanked him into the studio, slamming the door shut behind him.

“The room is soundproof,” she said quickly. “And I don’t want to have this conversation in public.”

Fenris nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Hannah eyed the bag, and Fenris followed her line of sight.

“Was this…wrong?” He asked, holding the bag up again.

“I thought you said you didn’t do this.”

She couldn’t help the edge of bitterness to her voice when she said it, and his frown deepened.

“I thought you wanted to talk. I thought—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

Hannah sighed through her nose, pulling her bass from her shoulder and turning away from him to set it back in its case.

“If you’re going to do the whole ‘I don’t date, I don’t want to be tied down, I need my freedom’ speech, can you go ahead and get it over with?”

“Is that what you want me to say?”

“Well…no,” she admitted, standing and facing him again. “I just figured…with what you said last night and my luck with relationships…” She left that thought hanging when she saw Isabela and Varric watching intently through the window. She sighed again, moving to sit on the floor, back to the wall where the window was. She watched Fenris look from her to her friends outside and back to her. His expression was impossible to read.

“I don’t have a speech of any kind prepared,” he said. Then he crouched and rummaged through the bag, pulling out a familiar white box and holding it out to her.

“You really only left to get breakfast?” She eyed the box from Lirene’s for a moment before taking it from him.

“I…Sigrun told me breakfast was an…appropriate gesture, yes.”

“Sigrun told you…?”

“I texted her. When I woke up, I—” He shook his head and his shoulders sagged a little. “I apologize, Hawke. I should have just waited for you to wake up. This is not…I am in unfamiliar territory here.”

When Hannah had first dragged him into the studio with her, she was still buzzing with energy, chest vibrating with emotions she refused to put name to. But looking across at Fenris, his usually confident posture softened by uncertainty, and Hannah felt all of that agitation and restlessness seep out of her. She gestured to the spot next to her.

“They can’t see you if you sit under the window.”

Fenris’s eyes darted to the window, hesitating a moment before crawling across to the wall, leaning his back against it and stretching his legs out beside hers. Hannah opened the box, revealing the same pastries she always ordered, she took one and held the box out to him. He took the box and in exchange passed her a thermos of coffee. They ate in silence, silence that was making Hannah’s pastry feel heavy in the pit of her stomach. She retraced the awkward conversation they’d had, searching for some way to jump start it again, finally settling on the first thing he’d said when she’d opened the door.

“The Blight Orphans were one of my favorite bands when I was in high school.”

He turned his head and met her eyes for the first time since she’d dragged him into the room.

“Sigrun and I were…kicked out of a Blight Orphans show when we were 14.”

Hannah couldn’t help but laugh at the slight twist of distaste on his face as he said “kicked out.” The laughter seemed to shake the last of her bad mood off her shoulders.

“That sounds like a story.”

He stared at her for a moment before his lips quirked up in something resembling a smile.

“It was.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on his lips for a moment, that almost smile of his making her hyper-aware of just how close he was sitting, reminding her of the night before. She ignored the warmth growing in her cheeks and asked, “You really texted Sigrun this morning?”

Fenris’s cheeks darkened and his eyes dropped from hers.

“In another life, I probably would have just left,” he said. “I have always said I would not let a relationship distract me from me goals. I would have…walked away. Convinced myself that letting you hate me was the better option. Though I admit I’m not sure what’s I did was much better.”

Hannah studied the half-eaten pastry in her hand. She wondered idly about those fairy tales the girls she’d known in elementary school were always giggling about. Somehow she doubted that the prince ever had to text a friend to ask how to woo the fair maiden.

“I think it’s fine,” she said, eyes still trained on the pastry. “I mean, I don’t…I guess I still don’t know what you want. And I don’t really know what I’m doing either. But…I’m here, Fenris.” She looked up at him and smiled. Then she nudged his shoulder, like she had the night before. “And it’s always good to have someone at your side when exploring unfamiliar territory.”

Fenris’s lip twitched at the corner. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” Hannah nodded, taking another bite of the pastry.

“Well,” Fenris said, grinning now. “If there is unfamiliar territory to explore, I would walk into it gladly at your side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This was half written in over a year ago in response to Emilinia-sama's prompt, "music," and half written a few days ago when someone (coughcoughxandercough) started asking me questions about Hannah. I figured I'd update and call the story done because it's probably as done as it's gonna get. Could I add chapters of these two navigating the beginning of a relationship, sure. But there are better writers who do the same thing, and I don't want to leave y'all hanging for another year (or longer), which is probably what it would take just to get something mediocre out of me.
> 
> Also, for anyone wanting more on why Fenris didn't leave (especially since him leaving is canon), here's my logic: In game, Fenris leaving makes sense. He's not emotionally ready for a relationship. That's sort of what he's hinting at in his "In another life..." line here. But in this story, Fenris and Sigrun are bros and have been for years. I figure this Fenris would have matured a bit when it comes to relationships just because of his friendship with Sigrun and therefore be more willing to stick around for Hawke.
> 
> To those of you who actually came back to this a year+ later, thanks for sticking around. And to those who only found it because of the new update, I hope you enjoyed these five little chapters. What I learned from this fic is that it's actually really hard (for me, anyway) to write a story in multiple styles and have it ever feel cohesive.


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